


An Ordered Disorder

by notmoreflippingelves



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Morning After, One Night Stands, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmoreflippingelves/pseuds/notmoreflippingelves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had almost forgotten how therapeutic it was to cling and be clung to. There was a curious and mutual strength that came from a shared sense of vulnerability, a clearness of head and heart that was the result of laying each bare before someone who listened and would care. And now they must say goodbye to "Jean" and "James" before they'd even properly said hello.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ordered Disorder

**An Ordered Disorder**

Jean Innocent peered through the glass pane of one of the large windows at the side of her office. The cheerful light of a cloudless day could easily be glimpsed through the half-open blinds, but something about her posture suggested that she couldn’t really see the sun after all—for all that it was shining on her face. She slouched ever so slightly, a subtle but profound contrast to the commanding, confident way in which she normally carried herself. There was also quiet intensity to her gaze that conveyed she wasn’t really taking in anything in particular—certainly nothing so conspicuously bright and lovely as the sun at the very least.

Leaning in the frame of the chief superintendent’s office door, Sergeant Hathaway reflected that if it had been anyone else, she might have looked rather pathetic. But though Jean Innocent was the very picture of discreet desolation, she nevertheless managed to radiate a quiet vulnerability that elevated rather than diminished her in Hathaway’s eyes. Though the previous night’s events had suggested that she was just as complicated and lonely as James himself was, there was something far finer and nobler about her discontent than Hathaway’s own.

Much as it pained him to admit, the sergeant knew that he himself deserved his own unhappiness—that loneliness was the logical penalty for his many failings—his sins and his selfishness, his inadequacies and his idiosyncrasies.

However, he could not fathom that the chief superintendent was at all deserving of a similar punishment. Jean Innocent was probably the most morally-upright person he’d ever known—to the point that it was -quite frankly- _irritating_. If anyone had earned the right to a life free from care or distress, it was she.

And yet, fate had saddled her with a physically and emotionally distant husband. A job that tested her patience, intelligence, and resilience to the maximum everyday. A best friend whose dark deeds and horrible secrets had caused Innocent to question everything she thought she had known.

No one could fully hold herself together, when confronted with so many personal crises, though Jean had managed a near perfect semblance of composure up to this point. Maintaining the façade that all was as it should be must have been exhausting, so it should only have been only a matter of time before it had slipped—as it had the previous night.

Having stayed at the office late to finish a report, he’d been preparing to go when he noticed a light was still on in the chief superintendent’s office, and when he had popped his head inside, he had found her in tears, and though neither of them was entirely sure how it happened, he found himself welcoming her into his flat not an hour later, hanging up her coat in the hall closet and then pouring the first of what proved to be several glasses of red wine.

The result of wine and sympathy was that Jean’s composure had—not so much slipped as crumpled completely—and James’s own defenses had crumpled along with hers. Their inhibitions and clothes had fallen to the floor—leaving their dreams and anxieties just as exposed as their bodies.

What they’d done had been shameful, sinful—even, but ex-seminarian though he might have been, Hathaway had trouble summoning the adequate shame. Perhaps the guilt, the self-disgust would come later, but for now…

He’d almost forgotten how therapeutic it was to cling and to be clung to.. There was a curious and mutual strength that came from a shared sense of vulnerability, a clearness of head and heart that was the result of laying each bare before someone who listened and would care.

And there…there had been something else there too. Something beyond carnal satisfaction or emotional consolation. Theoretically if not probably, he might have received those from just about anyone to a greater or lesser degree.

But he had a feeling that he’d also been given something that only she could have given. Though he couldn’t even begin to describe or even understand the sensation, he knew that it was simultaneously threatening and empowering.

If he had been younger, more naïve, he might have said it was love. But he had experienced love in the past, and it hadn’t felt quite like this. For all people went on about “love at first sight,” love in Hathaway’s experience had always been gradual—not this sudden intensity years after their first meeting.

And as satisfying as the physical intimacy had been, his feelings couldn’t be described as a sudden, obsessive lust either. There was more to it than that, although he could not deny that carnal passion did factor quite significantly into this.

Apart from the infrequent and unexpected erotic dream, he had never seriously thought of her in any sort of romantic or sexual context until quite recently. And yet, he had suddenly and inexplicably started _wanting_ her and had not stopped wanting her for even a moment since.

His mind had fixated on word “want” intentionally rather than any of its seeming synonyms. While “desire” implied longing purely for salacious ends, “want” was far more open-ended, often conveying the physical and emotional simultaneously.

Unlike “desire,” “want” had also an alternate definition—one less common but equally applicable to Hathaway’s situation. In the biblical sense, to “want” something was to “lack” something—most often something essential either for physical survival or emotional fulfillment.

Last night, he’d found something in Jean Innocent that he had previously been lacking—something that he was starting to feel was as vital as it was hazardous. And when he had finished showering this morning and had found the bed empty, he had lost whatever it was he had found.

He had to accept that _whatever-it-was_ was lost to him for good and that he could never again have it—could never again have _her._ He had all-but-resigned himself to the disheartening fact, when she finally glanced over toward him and jeopardized his firm resolve.

Why was it that he was only now noticing just how beautiful she was? He had always thought that she was somewhat attractive—as women went—but now, it was as though he was seeing her truly for the first time. He supposed it must have had something to do with the fact that he had seen her now at her truest, most genuine self.

”Beauty is truth; Truth, beauty.” Unless he was mistaken, Keats had written that. “Ode on a Grecian Urn”—was that it?

Well in any case, Keats and Shelley and the rest of “the guys in the band” were wrong about so many things—for all of their picturesque language. Beauty went hand-in-hand with Chaos just as often as it did Truth.

And yet, there was something remarkable about Jean Innocent’s eyes that perfectly embodied the poet’s words—something equal parts subtle and blatant. Beauty, truth, and chaos coexisted within those eyes, revealing the perfectly-ordered disorder that lived inside of her and inside him as well.

It seemed that they were far more alike than he’d ever realized—holding themselves to the same impossibly high standards to which they’d never dream of holding anyone else, sharing the same unfortunate tendency to conceal their deepest feelings and most complicated thoughts even from themselves when possible. The crucial difference was that Innocent was significantly better at restraining her emotions than he was. Given what she had told him last night, Jean had been unhappy for months—maybe even years—and it was only just now that someone had noticed.

Or maybe Innocent wasn’t actually “better” at hiding her emotions; maybe she only appeared to be so. Because they knew him so well and cared about him so much, Lewis and Hobson had an uncanny tendency to notice Hathaway’s own discontent, sometimes even before James himself was aware of it. But probably because she was naturally private, apparently self-sufficient, and more-than-a-little intimidating, no seemed to monitor or observe Innocent’s own well-being or lack thereof. Maybe the real problem was that no one ever looked at her intensely and closely enough to notice the subtle cracks in her façade.

Hathaway resolved then and there that even if she had no one else, she would always have him. Now that he had seen the self she hid, he could not help but see it even when it was deeply concealed. He would notice the telling nuances in her demeanor, and he would offer consolation whenever and however he could. He would have to be very careful, however; it would be far too tempting to offer the same forbidden form of comfort that he had the previous night.

More intimidated and confused by James’s intense stare than she would have liked to admit, Jean’s eyes soon darted away from him and to the floor perhaps a millisecond later than they really should have. “Sergeant Hathaway,” she said by way of acknowledgment, successfully combating the very strong inclination to call James by his first name. She only hoped that her tone sounded far more casually professional than it did to her own ears.

”Yes, ma’am?” The word suddenly felt unnatural on his tongue. What a difference a night could make.

This time yesterday, he could not imagine ever calling his female superior by her Christian name. Now, it seemed wrong to call her anything else. He had seen the true Jean Innocent behind her reserved, professional exterior: a Jean that was complicated, conflicted, contradictory, captivating.

He needed to remind himself that—though they shared a corporeal shape—”Jean” and “ma’am” were two completely separate entities and needed to be treated as such. He could not presume the intimacy—in any sense of the word—with “Chief Superintendent Innocent” that had shared with “Jean.” And given the personal and professional threats that said intimacy posed, he must now say farewell to “Jean” before he’d even properly said hello.

An uncomfortable silence followed in which each waited for the other to speak first—perhaps more than a little afraid of the words that might come out of their mouths unbidden.

Finally, Hathaway cleared his throat and spoke. “You asked to see me, ma’am?” Surprise flashed briefly across her face immediately followed by fear.

 _Had she asked to see_ _him_? It would have been a very poor judgment on her own part. Of course, she would have to discuss the previous night with Hathaway, and sooner rather than later; but it seemed like it would be more prudent for the two of them to avoid each other for at least a little while longer.

After a moment’s thought, Jean had a vague recollection of speaking to the desk sergeant on her way in and concluded that she must have mentioned James then, though she had no real memory of it.

Of course, it was understandable that she had forgotten, given that her mind had been in million places at once at the time. She only hoped that there wasn’t something else that she had forgotten in her anxiety, that someone might read her indiscretion all over her face.

Her first priority on coming in to work had been to retreat to her office where she always kept a clean and pressed blouse and skirt for emergencies and last minute press conferences. The absolute last thing she needed was for someone to notice that she was wearing the same dress she had worn yesterday and drawing undesirable conclusions.

Unfortunately, she had not had the foresight to think of keeping a spare pair of tights in her office. In his eagerness to get them off her last night, James must have torn the pair she’d worn yesterday.

She couldn’t help but realize that—in a curious accidental symbolism—she’d made considerable rents in both her legwear and her marriage vows the previous night. Two little holes—one trivial and tangible, the other significant and abstract—both with the very real potential to expand until the damage was irrevocable. If it had happened to someone else and not to her, she might even have found it funny in an odd sort of way.

But it hadn’t happened to someone else. Her mind, her marriage, and her tights were unraveling, and there was a terrible part of her that just wanted to let them unravel. A terrible part of her that just wanted to give up and accept her fate rather than to start untangling her life.

But she couldn’t stop, even if she had really wanted to. She simply had to have order, structure, propriety, stability. She simply had to—or she’d be forced to admit that her current fragility was not truly the result of career pressures and exhaustions—as she had tried to convince herself.

She had always acknowledged that she wasn’t made completely of stone—that she was just as capable of failings, fears, and feelings as everyone else. And yet, she had taken great pride in the thought that she was nevertheless stronger, more stable, more resilient than the average person. In fact, she’d lived the greater portion of her life with the comfort that any complications she encountered were only temporary tests of her patience and perseverance—and that she would ultimately sail through the ordeal with flying colors.

But there had been something about the last several months that had felt different from the struggles she had faced in the past—something that felt far more intense, far more _permanent._ She had a strange feeling that she had been slowly but irrevocably _weakening_ over time. Her actions the previous evening had either been her own inevitable collapse or-if if she was feeling optimistic- merely a doomed bid to delay the inevitable. A doomed bit that had had ironically only brought her closer to her final collapse. Regardless, it had _still_ been a pathetic, weak, desperate thing to do.

And yet, it had not felt that way at the time. At the time, letting herself by comforted by someone just as lonely as she was had seemed the only logical course of action. It was natural, appropriate even that they would block out each other’s desolation—if only for the moment.

Even now that she had had time to fully process and consider her actions, she found that she could not blame or hate herself for it—even though she knew that she should. As unprofessional, inappropriate as it had been, it had also been _nice._ She knew that wasn’t even remotely close to being the right word, but she was far too afraid to consider any alternatives. Even “nice” was already far too unthinkable.

So lost was she in her own thoughts and fears and feelings that she had not heard Hathaway’s repeated attempts to regain her attention. Eventually, the sergeant refrained from further throat-clearing and professional courtesies and took a more direct route. Somehow a light hand on her arm and a quiet “Jean” was able to draw her back to reality far more completely than a professional-albeit-impersonal “ma’am,” though her reaction to being addressed so directly was in equal parts relieved and frightened.

She took a moment to right herself and then proceeded with the meeting as if nothing had happened. “I think we both know what this is about. I…I trust I can count on your discretion.”

” Of course. You know you can.” He paused, hoping that she would not be able to sense how difficult he was finding it to say what he knew that he must say next. “And before, you ask, ma’am. It…it won’t happen again.”

Jean knew it was the right, the _only_ thing that could be done. In fact, she would have insisted upon it if his acquiescence hadn’t already been so readily given. And yet, she could help but feel a twinge of what felt very much like regret at the quickness of the reply.

It was almost as though some terrible part of her had been hoping, though she wasn’t at all sure for what exactly she’d been hoping. She tried to convince herself that she only wanted reassurance that she was still worth fighting for. That she could still inspire sufficient affection—or even lust—to would make someone resist propriety and conventionality.

She kept telling herself that this was all she really cared about: receiving some sort of verification that she was still _desirable_ in any and every sense of the word. But she couldn’t help but wonder if she would have felt this self-confliction if it had not been James Hathaway standing before her. If it had been someone less considerate, less gentle, less kind, and—she might as well admit it—less handsome.

Of course, she doubted that it was James as an individual that was causing this frightful uncertainty, merely James as a type of man. After all, she’d never really thought of him in quite that way until the previous night, and it wasn’t as though she’d spent every waking moment since thinking about him.

It was just that his arms had been open at the time when she had most needed to be held. It was just that he’d made her feel that he had needed her—at that particular moment and in that particular way—just as much as she had needed him. It was just that James was the embodiment of everything she loved about her husband and the opposite of everything she hated.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the intense, inscrutable way he was staring at her now, nor with the fact that she had seen him look at her that way many times, before either of them had thought to question what it meant. Furthermore, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the intensity of his gaze simultaneously relaxed and terrified her.

And even if it _did,_ it was clear just a biological reaction to stimuli. It was not uncommon for fortysomething women to experience extreme hormone fluctuations, particularly where libido was concerned. And the fact that she and her husband hadn’t been intimate in several months certainly hadn’t helped to foster a balanced psyche.

Much as she hated to think of herself as an undersexed mess of hormonal and emotional instability, it made far more sense and was far safer than the other possible explanation.

That she had, that she was, that she would… would fall for him. Even the words sounded ridiculous. “Falling for him” as though she was in one of those soap operas she loved to hate. As though she was reckless, romantic, hedonistic, flighty, fickle, irrational.

 _Absurd._ The word suddenly sprang to her mind, though she wasn’t sure whether or not it applied to herself or to the impossible, irresistible, terrifying explanation for her behavior.

_The heart can and always should obey the head._

The trouble was that—up until that point—she’d believed that C.S. Lewis was right about the relationship between love and reason. She’d experienced it for herself, had known it for the fact that it was.

Her feelings for her husband had started out as an attraction of the mind before they’d transformed into a love of the heart. They had made sense as a couple then—and from an outsider’s perspective, they still are a perfect match.

Both clever, ambitious, attractive. He had been born wealthy, she was sophisticated enough to “compensate” for her own middle class upbringing. And at least at the beginning, they had been compatible in nearly every way it was possible to be compatible.

Until he’d stopped realizing their fundamental compatibility.

She knew that it was unfair to place all the blame on her marriage’s collapse on her husband. She must have done something, said something, been something at some point at some time, causing his attention to divert elsewhere. She just had no idea what exactly it had been that she’d done.

Not that she hadn’t tried everything she could think of to repair the breach. She’d groveled and flirted and gone out of her way for him. She’d shown up dutifully and gracefully on his arm to all of his functions, while work always left him “indisposed” when she asked him to make time for her. She’d dealt with his boss roughly pawing at her after one-too-many, while her husband made off to the lavatory to phone his girlfriend. She’d flirted with his colleagues and friends and tried to reconnect with old flames in pathetic last-ditch efforts to make him jealous. And when that had failed, she’d simply tried unsuccessfully to look the other way whenever he looked elsewhere.

She’d done everything but stop loving him, as he’d stopped loving her long ago. Or perhaps more to the point, she’d done everything but cut him loose.

Maybe the real truth was that she didn’t love him quite enough anymore to let him go. Maybe the real truth was that he neither loved not hated her enough to give her a real chance of finding happiness elsewhere. He needed her as a security blanket between mistresses, something to tide him over until something better came along. She meanwhile had needed a different kind of security blanket.

She needed something to come home to, someone to be there when she returned home. She needed someone to rub her shoulders whenever she felt she might collapse from the weight and pressures of the day. When nightmares of past cases erupted, she needed someone to hold her close and to stroke her hair, until she fell back asleep.

Like all overworked and underpaid police officers, she needed comfort, security, stability in her personal life. She had not had any of that with her husband in quite some time. And yet, she still could not simply give up and move on. She still clung to a few foolish hopes and happy memories. She had little choice.

Because going home to a house that was only probably empty was still better than going to a home that was definitely empty. _Wasn’t it?_

Of course, it was. Because recognizing that she was alone and unloved meant recognizing that she was volatile and vulnerable. And she was genuinely terrified of the person she was when she was self-aware of her own solitude.

Seeing the defeated look on Innocent’s face, Hathaway found himself tormented by the very real temptation to take her in his arms once again, to press his lips to hers, to remind her that she was beautiful, brilliant, and remarkable in every possible way.

But he couldn’t. Not when they’d both agreed, when they both knew that this had to stop before it had fully begun. Not when he knew how easy, how perfect it would be to lose himself in her. Not when she was quite possibly still vulnerable enough to let this happen again.

It was so very unfair, so very wrong. It wasn’t only that his actions had been impulsive, ill-advised, self-interested, and the very definition of unprofessional. It was that what had happened between them had happened at the worst possible time and in the worst possible way.

They were both so fragile right now that it was all-but-impossible to truly comprehend exactly why they had come together as they had. Was it merely that they were both lonely and had needed someone, _anyone_? Or was there more to it than that—a genuine and mutual attraction, a need for each other specifically? Even if their professional circumstances had been different. Even if they hadn’t been sergeant and chief superintendent but had instead been merely man and woman—free to be together if they wanted—the uncertainty would still have doomed anything they had right from the start.

Though he still could not be absolutely sure, James was at least fairly certain that he had felt something more than loneliness, more even than lust. He had not merely wanted to be held or wanted to be wanted. He had wanted to be held, to be wanted in that moment by Jean specifically.

But just because his attraction was fixed and genuine, that did not mean hers had been. If anything, Hathaway’s own self-awareness had made the situation worse. If her anxiety, her loneliness had really been as intense as he’d been led to believe, than it was highly likely that she had not truly been herself, that she had not been fully in her right mind. And if that was the case, he had nevertheless taken advantage of her, relying on and preying upon her sorrow, her vulnerability to get him what he wanted.

He tried to reassure himself with the fact that he had not forced her, that he had made doubly-sure he had had her consent every step of the way. But if she had really been so desperate and so desolate, could her consent really be called so after all? And what kind of despicable, revolting creature was he that he was finding a perverse relief in the fact that he had not raped her, nor had he ever thought of doing so? Even once he had convinced himself that she had—at the time at least—wanted the physical intimacy they’d shared, he still hated himself for the pleasure he’d craved and taken from her.

She had deserved…she _did_ deserve so very much better. Someone who would be generous with comfort without being selfish—as he had been. Someone who would have given her everything she wanted, everything she needed without expecting for, hoping for anything in return. And he had craved so very much from her that night—not merely sexual satisfaction alone but also affection, warmth, tenderness, and the very same consolation he had tried to give to her. She had given him everything he had wanted and more besides, and he despised himself even more for believing at the time that he had earned these comforts.

Innocent’s beautiful eyes suddenly locked intently on Hathaway, and the sergeant felt himself overwhelmed by several complicated, conflicting emotions and urges. He suddenly felt that he needed to leave as soon as possible—before he did or said something he’d regret. “If that’s all…I think I’ll go now.”

”James….I just…I wanted you to know.

Hathaway’s breath suddenly caught in his throat. “Yes?”

”Last night, I’d had rather too much to drink,” she said, perfectly cognizant of the fact that neither of them were nearly as drunk as both would subsequently pretend they’d been. Jean cleared her throat. “And as you know, I was in a bit of a dark place personally…”

” An _understandably_ dark place,” Hathaway emphasized, though Innocent gave only a noncommittal shrug in acknowledgement.

Jean sighed and reached up to rub her earring, a nervous habit of which she’d never been able to rid herself. “I just…I don’t want you to think that this is…is a regular occurrence for me. I just don’t want you to think that I’m the sort of person that does stupid, reckless things whenever I feel lonely.” She only hoped that she hadn’t forever lost his good opinion, as it meant a lot to her. Or perhaps more to the point, _he_ meant a lot to her, though she still wasn’t totally sure she knew in what way and was afraid to find out.

”I never thought that of you,” he answered honestly.

The chief superintendent carried on as if she hadn’t heard him. “I’m just so…so very sorry that you had to witness that shameful display. “

He raised an eyebrow. Though he he knew full well how inappropriate and unprofessional what they had done was, he still knew instinctively that the lion’s share of the blame was his. James had taken advantage of the situation, whereas Jean’s actions had been natural, understandable, acceptable. There was very little that had been shameful about letting herself be open and honest and vulnerable. About letting someone cherish her even just for a moment, giving her the pleasure, the comfort and affection that she deserved.

Hathaway opened his mouth to protest when Innocent continued. “I just…I can assure you that I don’t usually…just…just throw myself at anyone drunk and lonely enough to have me.”

He stared at her for a long moment. ” You didn’t…I…I wasn’t.”

”What?”

 _Anyone drunk and lonely enough to have her?_ Is that what she thought he was? So intoxicated, so lonely, and so desperate that he’d screw just about anyone? And worse, did she really think so little of herself that the only person she could imagine desiring her now was some horny bastard in desperate need of a halfway-decent shag?

He still had just enough pride, just enough self-esteem to recognize that he would never have been that desperate, to make love to someone without genuinely wanting them at least a little. And he very much suspected that Innocent had the same standards, the same iota of self-control and self-respect. Even if she had been vulnerable and tipsy enough to disregard her marriage vows and professional responsibility, he felt sure that she could only have done so with someone she trusted, someone she to whom she was at least somewhat attracted.

And as for “throwing herself at him,” either she was joking or she had clearly forgotten everything that had transpired between them. He had been the one to initiate all the intimacy, carefully tracing the contours of her face before tilting her chin upwards and claiming her mouth with his. He had been—was still—astonished that she’d responded to his kiss, that she had in fact deepened it. That she’d allowed him to undress her and to place his hands and lips anywhere and everywhere he wanted them.

”You didn’t throw yourself at me,” Hathaway said finally, trying unsuccessfully to banish the intoxicating images and memories of the previous evening from his mind. “If anything, it was the other way around. “

Innocent raised an incredulous eyebrow. As chivalrous as it was for Hathaway to attempt to shoulder the greater portion of the blame, they both knew that she was just as—if not more—culpable as he. Sure, James had initiated the first kiss, but Jean had responded to his lips almost instantly, swiftly bringing her tongue into the equation and then guiding his hand down to her breast.

On more than one occasion last night, he’d asked her if she wanted him to stop. At the time, she’d assumed that he was merely being a gentleman, ensuring that he had her consent before taking what he wanted.

But upon reflection, she wondered if this had actually been James’s subtle indication that he himself wanted to stop. Perhaps, he felt intimidated by the difference in their ranks, felt significant career pressure to pleasure his female superior. It made a certain amount of sense. After all, he had devoted himself almost completely to her, neglecting his own needs until encouraged to see to them.

And _yet_ … Lying in his surprisingly muscular arms, feeling his lips brush against the skin underneath her ear—a spot where she was astonished to re-discover she was extraordinarily sensitive—she had not for even moment felt as though she was being treated like a boss; she felt as though she was being treated solely and completely as a woman.

Hathaway’s next words gave voice to Innocent’s own thoughts. “Is it really so hard for you to believe that someone might have actually wanted _you_? Not merely companionship or comfort or even sex, but _you_.”

That was it exactly, it was extremely difficult to imagine. She suspected that she would not have had this much trouble ten or even five years ago, when she had still had her looks, her confidence, her husband’s affection. But not now, not when she could actually feel herself steadily deteriorating psychologically as well as physically—getting older and getting weaker and weaker in every possible way.

And James was young and vibrant and handsome…

He stared at her in astonishment. Could it really be possible that she saw herself this way? That she genuinely believed she was incapable of being desired, of being loved? He doubted he’d ever met anyone more worthy.

Though he was barely even trying, he at once thought of countless things that were undeniably loveable about her. Of course, there were the obvious things: her smile, her eyes, the softness of her skin, the lushness of her curves, her intelligence, her integrity, her wit.

But there were other things too. There was the slightly comical way that she wrinkled her nose in disapproval, the surprisingly endearing nervous habits she had of playing with her earrings and twirling her hair unself-consciously around her finger. There was the way she had burrowed herself under the bedclothes last night, completely covered from the tip of her nose to her toes—except for one small foot that stuck out from the blankets stubbornly and emphatically. There was the way she had stubbornly but unsuccessfully tried to repress a high-pitched girlish squeal when he kissed the delicate patch of skin underneath her ear.

He wanted to tell her all of this, wanted to make her understand just how easy to love she was, but he knew that he couldn’t. If he did, he would find it far more difficult to let her go than it already was. If he did, they might find themselves yet again making the same mistake they had made last night again, a mistake that could destroy them both far too easily.

The chief superintendent fixed him with her gaze again. Though James doubted very much that Jean was aware of the fact, her eyes seemed to challenge him to become a better man—the sort of man that might someday be worthy of someone like her, the sort of man that Hathaway knew he could never be.

That was another reason that nothing serious, nothing permanent could ever come of this. Even if the rank difference, the age difference, her marriage, everything else was keeping them apart were not part of the equation, there was still the fact that he was damaged while she was not. There was—he knew—a terrible darkness in him, one that he had unsuccessfully tried to combat for nearly his entire life. He had no choice but to be alone, rather than risk tainting someone else with his presence.

As she continued to stare at him, he knew instinctively that he had to say something, even if it was not what he truly wanted to say. “If nothing else, just promise me this. Never…ever think that anyone would have to be drunk or lonely in order to want you. Or that your husband’s current indifference means that you are in anyways incapable of being or unworthy of being loved. Because you _are_ worthy, Jean, more worthy than you can possibly imagine. And so very loveable.”

She nodded and gave an unconvincing “thanks” in reply.

”It wasn’t a compliment. It was the truth, and I need you to believe it.” Hathaway’s voice was uncharacteristically harsh, and there was an intensity in his eyes that lent credence to his words.

Innocent gave a wry smile. “Someone someday is going to be very lucky to have you.” For a moment, she was almost sorry that it wouldn’t be her. Maybe more than “almost sorry” if she were being truly honest with herself.

He stared at her blankly for a moment. _Lucky?_ Hardly. Truth be told, he would pity anyone who might end up stuck with him—stuck with all of his insecurity, anxiety, guilt, fear, darkness.

No, whoever ended up with Jean would be the truly fortunate one, and for a moment, he was selfishly resentful that it couldn’t be him.

For a moment, their eyes locked on each other, and they simply stared, so much that they wanted—needed—to say, but so much more that they couldn’t. Then, almost as suddenly as it had began, the spell broke, reality setting back in and reminding them of where and who they were.

Innocent took a moment to right herself. “Well, Sergeant Hathaway, if that is all…” Though it was probably just his imagination, he thought he detected a twinge of wistfulness in her tone.

”Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his voice tripping slightly over that last word in spite of himself. ” I think…that’s…that’s all.” With a heavy heart, he turned to go.


End file.
